


A Hole Where My Heart Used to Be

by dogmatix, norcumi



Series: Teeny Tiny Mandalorian Kenobis [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, GFY, M/M, Post Order 66, Tiny Cloned Jedi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Force has always given Obi-Wan visions. Lately, though, his dreams are of something new, and strange, and impossible. Children -- him but not. His lover -- alive, though he should be dead.</p>
<p>Happiness, when he has only known sorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hole Where My Heart Used to Be

**Author's Note:**

> Brought to you by the song [Warrior](http://youtu.be/bFcMSV8cVtk), by Paradise Fears.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes, breaking out of the dream by will-power alone.

It’s been months now, and while the dreams are not _worse_ , per se, they are…difficult.

Always so very difficult.

He sits up slowly, scrubbing sleep crust from his eyes and trying to give himself some sense of reality.

“This is Tatooine,” he murmurs softly, adding sound to the grounding feel of a face already lined by the suns (and grief, and war, and old scars that would never heal). A beard. An adult voice.

Not a child.

He leaves his face in his hands for a bit, threading his fingers into his hair and tugging just a little, because the dreams are detailed, but distant. Hazy in the sense that while there tends to be one viewpoint, it can swing around at any moment to one of the others. Usually one of the bolder ones, that giggle and laugh and are boisterous as he never was.

They tease, but they are gentle enough. It is never cruel. That is…somewhat reassuring, amongst the rest of the madness.

“Qui-Gon?” he calls softly, not sure if he’s hoping for an answer or not.

“Yes?”

Well damn. He really ought to have gotten some tea first. Obi-Wan lowers his hands, not quite able to keep himself from feeling haunted. Not by Qui-Gon, for all that he is a ghost.

Obi-Wan remembers what it was like, to have joy in his life. It was never expansive, the way it is in the dreams. For all that, there is joy, and love, and happiness.

Family.

He hates the damn dreams.

“Why the hell have you been trying for the last month to get me to visit Pantora?”

Qui-Gon gets that look, the one Obi-Wan had never understood properly as a padawan. It looks vaguely puzzled, this almost daft look that somehow conveys doubts about the questioner’s sanity, mental capabilities, and relevance to the situation.

It is the way Qui-Gon tries to cover a strong emotional reaction, using a mask to react internally while calculating out the best way to respond to something that’s blind-sided him.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

The only way Obi-Wan can possibly fight down absolute panic is to be angry, and the problem with anger – Jedi Code aside – is that if he does that, he’s going to throw things at Qui-Gon, and the only things nearby are a pillow and breakable objects.

Also, the bastard’s a fucking ghost.

“ _Dammit_ , Qui-Gon!” He’s roaring anyways, on his feet and hearing something shatter to the side. Some days his control of the Force is…negotiable. “It’s not a dream, is it!”

_Now_ Qui-Gon is genuinely puzzled, along with concerned over him. “Obi-Wan –”

“They’re real!” He doesn’t know if it’s coming out as a howl, or sobs, and from the increasingly concerned look from his dead Master, it might not be clear to him either. “Rex.” Gods, that _was_ a sob, his voice breaking, because he had been certain the man was dead, knowing there was no way Rex would – would _break_ , the way so many – the way that the _army_ –

Rex would have either taken his life if he had turned on the Jedi, or he would have died defending the Jedi from his brothers. There was no other option, not given who Rex was, had been. The Empire, _Sidious’s_ empire, did not spare anyone. If not for the children, Obi-Wan would have been utterly convinced that there is no hope for the future.

Some days, that is also negotiable. Luke is…very much like his father.

“The children. Six of them, I think.” He’s shaking, trying to concentrate on the – the part of the nightmares he can handle, the images of him as a youngling, each of them different in a way that is always dissonant and odd and yet within the dream context right.

He’s trying very hard not to think of Rex, roots graying to steel now instead of dark. Face lined, though the old smile lines around the eyes are more prominent, and only recently have they overtaken the wrinkles of sorrow that give him a weary look when he is not fierce. Rex, with hugs for tiny impossibilities, words of reassurance and fond scolding and occasional amused frustration. Love.

Obi-Wan shakes those memories off with fierce professionalism, glowering at Qui-Gon. “Pantora. It’s been Mandalore, Naboo, Ryloth, all sorts of places and planets and you’ve been poking at me for a bit longer than these damn _nightmares_ and –”

“Obi-Wan, I am dead, not omniscient! _What_ nightmares?”

Obi-Wan slowly slumps back down onto the bed, and covers his face with his hands again. “Rex. He has children with him. They look like me. I finally recognized the planet they were on. Those damn marshes.” He’s shaking, not sure what is worse, what is more insane.

Rex.

Clones. Six clones, of him, it has to be. An– Anakin might have sprung forth from the Force, but there hadn’t been _six_ of him. And gods know Obi-Wan isn’t special.

He’s shaking. Crying. He can feel in the Force that Qui-Gon has sat next to him, he can detect that faint electrical sensation that is the man trying to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Obi-Wan decides that Tatooine can use the water, and can fucking well have more of his tears since gods know it has claimed so much else from him.

Sorrow, at the death and horror that haunt him every moment.

Furious grief, that he knows is ill directed at Luke for things the boy is thoroughly blameless for, for things Obi-Wan is terrified that _Anakin_ might be blameless for.

Loss. His friend, to her mad husband. His brother, to the Dark and madness. The Order, to the Sith. His other brothers, whose minds he heard screaming as they were forced into betrayal. His lover, who he knew would stand against the Darkness.

He weeps it all out, until he is wrung dry. He’s slipped off the bed at some point, ending curled around his knees on the floor, and it takes a surprising amount of effort to uncoil himself. When he can stand, he keeps his shoulders back as he glares at Qui-Gon. His voice is hoarse, almost unintelligible as he points at the ghost. “You owe me some answers.”


End file.
